


Nowhere to go but with you

by Lacerta



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Snowed In, Winterhawk Wonderland Gift Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27992172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacerta/pseuds/Lacerta
Summary: Clint fights the urge to cross his arms, keeping them hanging loosely by his sides instead, and forces himself to relax his shoulders. It’s just a small precaution in case he needs to react fast but, god, he hopes it doesn’t come to that. He doubts any precaution that doesn’t include a loaded weapon would help him last more than a minute.He watches the man sitting across the kitchen table from him, curled in on himself under Clint’s warmest blanket with his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, and tries to wrap his head around the very unusual, very alarming situation he has gotten himself into.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 20
Kudos: 118
Collections: Winterhawk Wonderland - 2020 edition!





	Nowhere to go but with you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sian1359](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/gifts).



> Merry winter time, sian! I hope this story gives you the Winterhawk vibe you wanted. c:
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful veryrachael, thank you! <3

Clint leans back on the counter. He fights the urge to cross his arms, keeping them hanging loosely by his sides instead, and forces himself to relax his shoulders. It’s just a small precaution in case he needs to react fast but, god, he hopes it doesn’t come to that. He doubts any precaution that doesn’t include a loaded weapon would help him last more than a minute.

He watches the man sitting across the kitchen table from him, curled in on himself under Clint’s warmest blanket with his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, and tries to wrap his head around the very unusual, very alarming situation he has gotten himself into.

_A few hours earlier…_

Fucking snow.

Admittedly, his first reaction is joy. Sue him, but the first snow of the year is always exciting. He grins thinking about snowball fights he can get into. But then he remembers that he’s hundreds of miles away from anyone he knows and likes to hang out with, and his good mood dissipates in an instant.

He realises that snow means he’ll need to shovel the driveway in case he wants to get to town, _and_ hopes that the roads are clear enough for his old pickup truck, and curses under his breath. Time off at his most remote safe house seemed like a good idea in the face of SHIELD’s fall, but he’s not so sure about it anymore.

The snow doesn’t stop falling the whole day. By the evening, the door to the farmhouse is snowed in, and Clint has to squeeze through a window on the downwind side of the house to bring in dry wood from the barn. What would take maybe a quarter hour in good weather takes him a couple of hours in the snow. He’s freezing when he crawls inside with the last armful and shuts the window behind him, but at least he’s now fairly sure that he has enough to last him a few days without sticking his nose outside. He can stay in and pretend for a while that he’s just stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere due to unfortunate weather conditions, and not hiding from a Nazi organization intent on killing him. He can pretend life as he’s known it isn’t falling apart.

Of course, it’s barely warmer inside than it was out in the snow since he had the window open for the last couple of hours, but that’s nothing that can’t be easily fixed as soon as he gets the fire going. He takes off his coat and throws it in the general direction of the hallway; he’s too cold to care about hanging it properly.

He heads to the living room to light the fire, but takes a sudden turn into the kitchen: coffee comes first. He leaves the coffee machine to heat up while he carries the last batch of firewood to the fireplace.

The wood is cold, but still dry – he was careful carrying it from the barn – and soon the first flames lick the thinner logs he picked to start the fire. They warm his fingers quickly and Clint sighs with satisfaction. His survival skills are top notch.

He’s about to stand up from where he’s kneeling by the fireplace to get some hot coffee when he hears a thud against a window upstairs.

He jumps to his feet. This doesn’t bode well. In this weather it’s unlikely to be a lost bird, and there’s simply nothing close enough to the house to cause that kind of racket. Suddenly on full alert, he grabs a hatchet from beside the fireplace and rushes upstairs, taking a few steps at a time.

The noise repeats a few times before Clint reaches the second floor, and when he barges into the guest bedroom where the thuds are coming from, the window opens wide, letting in the cold, the snow, and a man who stumbles inside over the windowsill.

Clint drops the hatchet to the floor and rushes to help him up and close the window behind him. Whoever he is, he must be _freezing_ if he wandered around in the damned snow storm.

It doesn’t even occur to him that he should be wary of a complete stranger who barged into his house without an invitation until the man gets up on his feet. That’s when Clint finally sees his face. And his metal arm.

Fuck. His survival instincts might not be so good after all. He doesn’t even have a weapon; the hatchet he brought upstairs with him is lying on the floor a few feet away, but Clint’s not turning his back on the fucking _Winter Soldier_ anyway. What the fuck is he doing here? Tying up loose ends for Hydra? He’s supposed to have broken away from them, isn’t he? But if it’s not that, then _what?_

“Thank you,” says the Winter Soldier.

Those aren’t the words Clint expected. He was prepared for ‘you’re dead’, ‘any last wish?’ or even a wordless, brutal fight, but not for a thankful, _relieved_ voice.

“You’re– you’re welcome?” he stammers. His mind’s working fast in the background: he’s not dead yet and the Soldier isn’t lashing out. If anything, the man seems _scared_ , but he doesn’t act as if he’s recognised Clint at all. And if he hasn’t, it would be smarter not to let the Winter Soldier know Clint recognised _him_ , right? “That’s some messed up weather, eh?” he says instead, lightly. “I didn’t expect any guests today!”

“Uh, I’m… I can go, I–” The man looks outside, unsure, and his lack of confidence confuses Clint even further.

“What? No!” he responds automatically, offended. “Do I look like someone who throws people out into a blizzard? Un-fucking-likely.”

Which is how they end up heading downstairs – Clint points the Soldier towards the staircase, because confusion or not, he’s not willingly letting the assassin stay on his six. The Winter Soldier, however, doesn’t hesitate at turning away from Clint, as if he’s not even considering the danger.

Maybe he’s not here to fight, Clint hopes. Maybe he’s not here to kill Clint, he muses, pouring two cups of coffee. Maybe he really got lost in the snow storm; shitty things happen to everyone, he acknowledges while looking for a stash of warm blankets to share with the man.

Maybe it’s not _that_ birdbrained a decision to let him stay, at least for the night.

***

Clint directed the untalkative Winter Soldier to the spare bedroom, the same one he broke into earlier, gave him a couple additional blankets and left him be, all the while pretending to be oblivious to his identity. It should all be fine. The house is quiet, the door to Clint’s bedroom is locked, and the duvet is wonderfully warm.

And yet. Sleeping with a rogue assassin under his roof doesn’t seem to be happening tonight.

Clint tosses and turns, counts down from a hundred to one, then counts sheep, but nothing seems to work; likely because his efforts are only half-hearted. He’s not sure if falling asleep is a good idea. He knows Nat would call him something nasty in Russian if she knew.

His body’s still resting, he reminds himself, even if he’s not sleeping, so he forces himself to stay in bed. He’s halfway through the list of his aliases as the means to occupy the time, marking the SHIELD-related ones as expired, when he hears a shout, a thud, and then another cry.

He springs out of bed, grabs the sharpest knife he has stashed in his room, unlocks the door and sprints to the guest room, fully prepared to fight for his life. He runs on full speed into the door, smashing it open with his shoulder and looks inside the room.

The man’s gone from his bed and Clint’s heart stops for a brief second of panic before he locates the Winter Soldier curled in the corner of his room.

No. Not the Winter Soldier. This man, trembling and with eyes full of terror, clutching a corner of a blanket he must’ve pulled off of the bed – quite accidentally, judging by the way it’s sprawled across the floor - this man is not the Winter Soldier. This is James Buchanan Barnes. Or Sergeant Barnes? Or whoever he is, after all the brainwashing he went through. This is not Hydra’s mindless killing machine. Clint suspected something along these lines the evening before, but it’s different to see confirmation with his own eyes.

“You’re afraid of me,” the man whispers. His voice breaks and he seems to curl even tighter into himself, looking at Clint with fear of a somewhat different flavour.

That’s when Clint realises he’s standing in the doorway of the guest room with the biggest, sharpest knife he could find on short notice, gaping. He sets the knife on a dresser beside the door and raises his hands palms up.

“You’re a stranger in my house, man, sorry if I’m a little jumpy.” He attempts to cover up his reaction with regular nervousness around a stranger, but he can see the man pull on his blanket until he can wrap it around himself. His disbelief and wariness are palpable.

“You know what I am.” This time the words are even quieter, but they don't carry a hint of uncertainty. Clint’s lie has been noticed. He wonders what gave him away, but doesn’t deny the truth.

Clint swallows, takes a deep, steading breath and lowers himself slowly onto the floor with his legs crossed. He knows his height can make an intimidating impression, and this position makes him look - and feel - vulnerable. He can’t shoot up to his feet like this, so whatever happens, the other man has the upper hand. Clint’s terrified, but he figures he’s not the only one.

“I know what you _were_ ,” he starts softly, hoping it’s the right answer. The other man slumps even deeper, defeated, but that’s not all Clint has to say. “I know who you _used to_ be _before_. But I don’t know who you _are_.” He waits a few heartbeats for the words to register, and risks a question. “Why don’t you tell me who you are?”

“I don’t know!” The man half-whispers, half-whimpers. He leans his head on his fists, still clutching the blanket; his next words come out muffled. “I get… flashes. Sometimes. Tonight. There was this– Steve? He called me– but it doesn’t feel right. I did… things. Awful ones. I don’t want to be what I was.”

Alright. Clint bites on his lip. Okay. On the scale of one to Nat refusing to show up at his funeral, how bad an idea is it to engage in physical contact with a freaked out world-class assassin? He considers it for a moment before mentally shrugging. She’d send a nice wreath even if she didn’t attend.

He scoots closer and reaches out to put his hand on the man’s knee.

He gets a panicked look from behind the blanket’s fringes but the man doesn’t move away, so Clint raises his free hand palm up again and strokes his thumb in a comforting gesture over the man’s knee. He can’t imagine how touch-starved the guy must be.

“That’s okay,” he says, careful to keep his voice calm and low. “That’s in the past. You don’t have to be who you used to be. Not here. It’s okay.”

He dares to scoot even closer and when he does, the other man clings to him desperately. He lets out the tears he must’ve been keeping in for so long, his body shaking violently. Clint’s heart clenches a little. He wraps his arms around the man and doesn’t let go of him until the sobs die down and the man’s shoulders relax a little.

***

They’re not getting any sleep anytime soon, so Clint leads them downstairs to get coffee.

They sat in the kitchen barely a couple of hours ago, but this time the air isn’t as heavy. The former Winter Soldier slumps in the chair Clint has already internally labeled as his; he looks exhausted more than anything else. Sure, he’s still anxious – things like that don’t go away easily – but his breakdown seems to have sucked all the vitality out of him. He’s wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, even though the house has already warmed up since Clint lit the fire.

Where before Clint was wary, now he’s sympathetic. Instead of standing by the counter like he did the last time, he takes the spot at the adjacent side of the small table – close enough to offer comfort, but not so close he’d make his guest feel crowded.

The coffee brews; they wait in silence until the other man speaks up hesitantly.

“Can you tell me who I was?”

Clint startles. Where does one start to explain that kind of a past? Even if Clint knew all the details, he’d struggle to find words to put it into.

“It’s just…” The man looks sideways at him, clearly reading Clint’s silence as reluctance. “This… this Steve, I know him. I remember him, sometimes. He called me Bucky, but… I don’t know who that is.”

Clint takes a deep breath, but he doesn’t dare hesitate any longer.

“You were born as James Buchanan Barnes,” he starts.

He can see the man mouth that name with a frown. He gives him a moment before carrying on to list all that he’s learnt about Captain America’s best friend. It’s not much, not when it’s all the man can learn of his past life, and Clint finishes the brief recap before the coffee’s ready. He stands up and gets the mugs.

“You were last seen fighting Captain America, that’s Steve, on Hydra’s orders. But hey,” he adds quickly, seeing the man flinch at his words, “it’s all good, because, notably, you didn’t kill him.”

“He would’ve let me,” the other man murmurs, then shakes his head.

They sip their coffee quietly for a moment. Clint has about a million questions racing each other in his mind. How did the Winter Soldier run away from Hydra? How much does he remember? How in control is he, exactly? Clint knows better than to ask them; he waits.

“James,” the man says suddenly and Clint blinks in confusion. “You asked me who I am. I still have that to figure out, but it’s as good a name as any. I can be James.”

Clint grins widely. He raises his mug in a toast.

“Pleased to meet you, James.”

***

They get a few hours of sleep, in the end. James is exhausted enough that he falls into dreamless sleep not long after he gets back to bed. Clint forces himself to stay awake a while longer, to make sure James sleeps soundly. When he wakes up, he doesn’t remember falling asleep. The sun is already high above the horizon– The sun!

At some point of the night the snow storm must’ve died out, and the sky’s cleared by now. Clint hums happily. When he looks outside, he realises they’re snowed in for good. The snow on the lee side is almost as high as the second floor of the house, and it must be reaching even higher on the other.

He has mixed feelings about that. It sucks, of course it does. There’s no easy escape from the farmhouse now. They only have the resources Clint hid in the basement, and he didn’t take into account living here with another person. They have enough to survive two weeks, maybe even less if James has as quick a metabolism as Steve does. After that, they need to get out.

On the other hand, it gives James time to figure stuff out. Even if Clint’s unhappy with being stuck, he can appreciate that it’s gonna be good for a friend.

He stretches and wonders if James is awake. He’d still be dead asleep himself if he’d had such a clusterfuck of a week, but he decides to check on James anyway.

Sprawled across the bed, the man looks more adorable than a deadly assassin has any right to look. Strands of his long hair hide half of his face, but the vague half-smile is still clearly visible; for once, James looks comfortable. Clint takes it in from the doorstep. He supposes he shouldn’t intrude more than he has; in fact, he’s about to head downstairs when a shimmer outside the window catches his eyes.

He’s so occupied not showing that he’s noticed anything that he misses the exact moment James stirs awake. He grunts quietly, then freezes as soon as he comes back to his senses and doesn’t recognise where he is. Clint can see him ready to shoot up from the mattress in panic; he knows how bad the idea is, and does the first thing his panicked mind comes up with.

He throws himself on the bed, vaulting over James’ body to land on the mattress beside him. “Please don’t kill me!” he yelps, bouncing up and down on the springs. James is not the Winter Soldier anymore, but he _does_ have his instincts, and getting strangled isn’t on Clint’s to-do list for the morning.

“What the fu–” James tries to sit up, but Clint throws his arm across his chest and keeps him down. James lets him. Obviously; as good as Clint is, he doesn’t fool himself that he’d be able to overpower a supersoldier.

“Someone’s watching the house,” he says quickly, shifting to rest on his elbow and cover a wider angle with his frame. “I saw a reflection from the lenses – camera, binoculars, who knows? Don’t freak out,” he adds, and then corrects himself. “Right, probably too late for that, yeah. If you want to retaliate for scaring the shit out of you right after you woke up, you’re more than entitled to that. Just, since you were about to show your face to whoever it is that’s spying on the farm, consider hitting me with a pillow instead of your metal fist?”

He sees James tense up even more; he didn’t think it possible. Clint can almost see his mind working, the cogs moving, until he moves his jaw thoughtfully and reaches for a pillow under his head.

It connects with Clint’s chest more forcefully than expected and he barely manages not to fall on his back. He gapes; he really didn’t think James would take him up on that. When he looks at the man’s face, his smirk seems shy, but it’s there, so Clint counts it as a win.

“It… it felt good,” James sounds surprised with this discovery. Clint just chuckles.

“The small things,” he nods in agreement. “We can have a proper pillow fight once the danger’s gone.”

He doesn’t mean to remind James about the spy outside, and he curses himself in his thoughts when the other man frowns guiltily.

“I’m sorry,” James murmurs. “It’s my fault, I brought them here. I came here thinking the house was abandoned, there was no smoke coming out of the chimney, and Hydra–”

“Could just as well be after me,” Clint finishes for him.

“What?”

Clint bites his lip. Oh. They covered the story of James Buchanan Barnes yesterday, but Clint hasn’t said anything about his own (former?) career. It didn’t seem important then, but it would give James better context today.

“I’m Hawkeye.” There’s no reason not to rip this bandaid off right away.

It’s James’ turn to gape at him, and okay, at least he’s not pulling out a knife to stab Clint for his omittance of truth.

“Seriously?” Clint feels offended for a second because if James is going to suggest that he’s not good enough to– “In the middle of nowhere, out of all places to hide, I chose the home of an _Avenger_? That’s ridiculous!”

“Well, not home, a safe house, I’m hiding off the grid, but…” Clint trails away and shrugs with the one free shoulder. “It’s how it works in the superhero bizz. The lower the probability, the higher the chances it happens.”

They lie like that for a minute staring at each other before the awkwardness of it all gets to Clint. He clears his throat.

“Okay, no one’s shooting at us so whoever they’re looking for, they haven’t gotten a good look at them yet. The snow’s bad because we’re stuck here, but at least we’re properly snowed in and all the windows downstairs are covered by snow. No one will spy on us there. Shall we…?”

James nods, and so they get up. The whole affair is full of arms inconspicuously raised in morning stretches that happen to hide their faces as much as possible. They’re extra careful not to turn to the window, and to not look like they’re hurrying too much.

Still no bullets flying. As good a green light as they’re gonna get.

***

Clint intended to get down to business as soon as they were hidden by the snowed-in downstairs windows, but James’ growling stomach reminds him that breakfast comes first. Scrambling eggs, Clint goes through the events of this morning in his head, and comes to the same conclusion as he did before.

“They’ve seen my face.” 

He adds spices to the eggs and stirs them a couple times before glancing over his shoulder. James is staring at the far wall with wide eyes, and he looks horrified.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, I’m dragging you into–”

“Stop it.” James, surprisingly, shuts up, and when Clint passes him a fork, he accepts it unthinkingly. Clint sets down a plate with James’ generous portion of scrambled eggs, two slices of buttered bread and a cut up tomato. “Tuck in and let me talk first, okay?”

James nods; his eyes are still wide but now it’s more out of surprise than fear. Clint hums with satisfaction and turns to fix a plate for himself.

“They’re not looking for me, this time,” he says when he sits down at the table. “But Hydra trouble at this farm isn’t your fault, James, it’s something that was bound to happen sooner or later. If anything, this gave me an advantage because no one will seriously consider finding two persons of interest under the same random roof.” James doesn’t laugh, but at least he smiles weakly at Clint’s jab at his earlier disbelief. It’s another win. “They must have my face in their files, but whoever’s spying on us doesn’t know it. Yours, however... Well. Our next step is clear.” He shrugs and digs into his breakfast.

It takes him a moment to notice that he doesn’t hear James’ fork on the plate. He looks up, still chewing, and grunts imploringly.

“I don’t see how it’s clear. At all.”

“Has anyone told you that you have an impressive murder face?” Clint’s mouth runs faster than his brain. “Uh. I mean. Nevermind, look, all we need to do is make you not look like you.”

“What? How?” James’ confusion is palpable. Before he can suspect Clint of hiding cosmetic surgery tools in his basement, Clint clarifies.

“Your haircut, for starters. Your posture, a different gait. A relationship; we already laid some groundwork for that part upstairs. The appearances.”

All these things wouldn’t be a huge deal for a spy, but they could be a hard pill to swallow for someone with as messed up a sense of self as James. Clint gives him time to mull it over. He points with his fork to James’ plate and his guest resumes his breakfast – reluctantly at first but then, when he’s reminded of how hungry he is, he clears the plate in less than a minute.

Clint puts on the coffee and washes up in silence. His patience pays off because by the time he shakes off the last drops of water from his hands, James has made up his mind.

“Okay. Tell me how we do it.”

***

They start with the hair.

Clint doesn’t have a hair shaver at the farm, obviously; it’s not something he keeps stashed in a remote safe house. That’s not a surprise. However, even after a thorough search they can’t find a single pair of scissors in the whole house. They find a whole lot of sharp knives, sure, but Clint knows from personal experience that an assassin won’t feel comfortable with a virtual stranger handling a knife behind their back.

“Well, there’s a bigger mirror upstairs, I can fetch it for you and leave you to it, I guess...?”

“What?” James looks at him, offended, but then looks away and schools his face.

Clint pauses with a frown. Surprisingly, James doesn’t seem pleased to be left alone with the task.

“Would you rather I stayed and helped?” Clint asks cautiously. Relief shows on James’ face briefly when he glances up, but Clint notices; he’s studying that face very carefully.

“I don’t know the first thing about haircuts. Stevie used to do it for me back when–” James cuts off, clearly startled by his own words. He swallows and shakes his head. “I don’t know how to cut my own hair,” he tries again.

“I assumed you wouldn’t want me to…” Clint gestures at a knife, sitting innocently at the table between them, then at his own neck. “You know. Sharp objects and strangers?”

James looks as if he hasn’t even thought about that, and Clint needs a moment to remind himself that despite the looks, this is not the same person as the Winter Soldier. The instincts, if they’re still there, are buried deep; they aren’t conscious.

“Are you sure you want me to help?”

“Have you ever cut someone’s hair?” James asks instead of answering.

Clint nods with confidence. “I even did Nat’s hair once and lived,” he can’t help but boast. If that’s not proof of his skill, he doesn’t know what else could be.

“Even if you said you haven’t, you’d still have more skill than me,” James smiles weakly. “If you could…?” he hesitates.

“Sure!” Clint jumps into action quickly, before James starts to doubt his decision. He doesn’t reach for the knife quite yet; first, he carefully reaches with his hand. James is tense, but he doesn’t jump when Clint combs his fingers through the long hair. It’s greasy, tangled, which isn’t unexpected after being on the run for his life. Humming, he plays with the hair a bit more, and soon James relaxes into the touch. When his eyes flutter shut – he seems so touch-starved that it hurts to look – Clint takes the knife as silently as he can and steps behind James. He must’ve made a sound anyway, because the other man freezes in alarm.

It’s time for a distraction.

“You know, this skill comes in handy in the life of a spy, but I learned it before I even considered the career in espionage,” he says, smoothing the tangled strands. “Used to do haircuts at the circus.”

“The circus?” James perks up, surprised, and tries to turn to look at Clint.

“Yeah, no, stay still, the artist’s at work,” Clint chides lightly, and James huffs an almost-laugh. “Yeah, the circus. Where I grew up. See…”

The years Clint spent in the circus were hell, but the story he tells leaves out all the nasty details. It’s funny – James even chuckles a couple of times – it’s entertaining and, most importantly, it’s distracting. Before they know it, Clint’s job’s done.

When he takes a step back to admire his work, he gives James an enthusiastic thumbs-up. James smiles back and Clint wonders if he’s done too good a job, because his stomach does a little happy, _worrying_ flip.

***

Next come the pet names.

The haircut makes a whole lot of difference, but that’s only a part of the image they need to pull off. They still avoid going upstairs when it’s not dark enough to make their faces unrecognisable from a distance. The biggest test is still ahead of them: getting off the farm.

The season-appropriate scarves and hats will cover their faces, gloves will hide James’ metal arm, but they need to put on a flawless act for anyone who’ll watch them when they inevitably go outside. For all intents and purposes, they must become a couple.

Hence, the pet names.

They say it takes hundreds if not thousands of repetitions to form a new habit, but after the first “honey” slips out when Clint compliments James’ new haircut, he can’t seem to stop himself. He’s a pro at undercover work and fake identities, but he can’t remember if it ever came to him as instinctively, and he refuses to consider why it might be so.

As days pass, they get more comfortable around each other. While obviously aware and respectful of James’ skills and instincts, Clint doesn’t see the Winter Soldier when he looks at him anymore. It seems that James, too, has lost at least some of his distrust. He smiles at Clint’s endearments, accepts his casual touches when he sees them coming and becomes attuned to Clint’s needs and habits.

Like now, when Clint drags his feet down the stairs at an ungodly hour of too-ealy-before-dawn, and James hands him a freshly brewed mug of coffee.

Clint looks at the mug in his hands, inhales the enticing smell and, with his higher brain functions still asleep, says, “Marry me.”

He panics for a split second because an act or not, that surely crosses the line of what James finds appropriate.

“Sweetheart, you might want to ask me again once I’m sure you’re not talking to your coffee.”

Thank gods he hasn’t drank a single sip because he’d choke on coffee, and dying like that is not on his bucket list. Still, there’s no avoiding the high-pitched sound he makes when his brain registers James’ words. It would be humiliating if it wasn’t too early to feel more than one thing at once, and right now he feels…

Fuck if he knows what he feels, but James using a pet name and flirting back for the first time was all it took to overwhelm Clint’s tired brain.

Then James laughs.

It’s not the first time he’s laughed in the time they’ve been snowed in together. He’s chuckled, snorted, even snickered, but this is the first time Clint’s heard James full-on laughter, and it’s _breathtaking_. Clint gapes and drinks in this phenomenal sound, slowly realising that he was wrong; he knows exactly what he feels.

His brain nopes out at that moment, leaving Clint to deal on his own when James raises a concerned eyebrow after Clint stays quiet for a little too long.

“I like it,” Clint babbles. “Uh. Your laughter. It’s great.” Abort, abort, where’s that voice of reason that sounds a bit too much like Nat when you need it? He clears his throat. “For, uh, the mission? You should keep it up. Yeah.”

James smiles at him, delighted as if he discovered something very pleasing, but Clint cannot decipher what it is at this hour. He lets it go and takes a sip of his coffee in the hope that his brain restarts when it’s sufficiently caffeinated.

***

It seems that, yes, James has Steve’s supersoldier metabolism, because it takes even less time than Clint expected for them to go through all of their reserves. Thankfully the weather has stayed stable, the snow’s partially melted, and there was no fresh snowfall overnight. Yesterday Clint spent the whole day shoveling the driveway. When he finished, he was drenched from inside and out. As soon as he got inside, he headed for the shower, dropping layer after layer of clothing on the way. 

He didn’t think much of walking around without a shirt until he passed James and felt him stare at his back. He didn’t dare turn around and check if his instinct picked it up right or if it was his own wishful thinking.

The point is, they’re critically low on food stocks and everything is ready for them to leave the farm. Today is the day.

Their act is as flawless as it gets in a week starting from being virtual strangers. They’ve gone through the exact scenario they’re going to play; they know what to do. Clint’s not worried about that part. The agent spying on them won’t stand a chance against their performance.

Still, when they put on the warm coats, Clint feels a growing reluctance to leave the house. It’s stupid, he knows, but he’s grown comfortable sharing his space with James and once they leave, who knows how it’s going to play out? Will James ditch him as soon as he gets the opportunity? Clint won’t blame him if he does, but–

Clint reaches to adjust James’ scarf, hiding those plump lips before he can get any inadvisable ideas. He clears his throat.

“Ready?”

He can’t see most of James’ face but he recognises the wide smile by the man’s eyes.

“Whenever you are, doll.”

For the next few minutes they’re a perfect image of a couple in love. Every word and gesture is staged, surveying the perimeter is hidden among casual glances, and when James throws a snowball at him, Clint even makes sure to miss a pitch he returns. (It hurts deep in his soul.)

The agent running surveillance on them is still there, but they don’t react when James and Clint take a truck out of the shed and drive away for what they loudly claim to be a grocery run.

As far as they can tell, no one follows them. Clint doesn’t take his foot off the throttle nonetheless.

“Where do you want me to drop you off?” Clint manages to say in a casual tone despite his suddenly tight throat. He carefully doesn’t look away from the road before them.

“What?”

James sounds surprised. Clint ruthlessly quashes the premature hope that rises in his chest.

“We haven’t really talked about what happens now,” he says. “If you have any plans, I could drive you wherever–”

“Yeah, I’ve got plans,” James interrupts him sharply. “Can you stop the car?”

Clint does. Of course he does; he’s not that much of an asshole that he’d force James to drive with him anywhere. It’s okay. His heart might’ve just shattered into pieces, but it’s okay. He’ll get over it, the way he always does.

The car’s not moving but the door doesn’t open. Clint glances at James in confusion, and when he sees him looking back, he freezes.

James has taken off his scarf, so Clint can see him clearly as James looks at him with the softest expression Clint’s ever seen on that face. Clint doesn’t understand, not even when James huffs and mutters, “What is it about idiots that draws me in?”

He starts to understand when James grips the collar of Clint’s coat, pulls him in and _kisses him_. _Oh_.

“Oh,” he eloquently repeats out loud when they part. James rolls his eyes at him but then kisses him again, so Clint can’t really complain.

“I have plans,” James whispers with lips hovering over Clint’s, “that involve a certain guy I’m sweet on. Do you mind taking me wherever he goes?”

Clint swallows hard and smiles widely, this time not suppressing the explosive feelings inside him.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think, kudos and comments always make my day and feed the finicky inspiration gremlins!


End file.
